


Of Primers and Men

by MycroftexMachina



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fourth Wall, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 00:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11794557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MycroftexMachina/pseuds/MycroftexMachina
Summary: There is a fucking primer. Dylan doesn't quite know what to do with that.





	Of Primers and Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carissima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carissima/gifts).



> Inspired by this post: 
> 
> http://lovedyouless.tumblr.com/post/159915084377/connor-mcdavidleon-draisaitl-masterpost.
> 
> One might want to use it a reference for this story.

 

“There is a fucking primer, Marns!” Dylan says.

 

“What the hell is a primer, Stromer?” Marns asks in a tone of voice so disinterested Dylan would deck him if Marns were within reach. Unfortunately Marns is at his Toronto’s condo, and Dylan is back home at his parents’.

 

“It’s a small introductory book or piece of writing on a subject,” Dylan recites dully.

 

Marns squints at him suspicious over FaceTime. “Did you just Google that?”

 

“Yeah,” Dylan admits. “It’s from the website for a thing called Merriam-Webster. Apparently it’s dictionary.”

 

“A dictionary,” Marns deadpans. “I’m astonished, Stromer. I never thought I’d see the day.”

 

“Fuck off, Marns,” Dylan says.

 

“Whatever,” Marns tells him unsympathetically.

 

“You are still missing the point,” Dylan continues undaunted.

 

“I don't know what the point is, Stromer, besides the fact that there is a primer.”

 

“It’s about Davo,” Dylan explains trying to be helpful.

 

“Davo?” Mitch repeats perplexed “You mean McDavid?”

 

“Do you know any other Davos?” Dylan asks, because inquiring minds want to know.

 

“Why would there be an introductory book on Davo?” Marns asks him, like Dylan has a clue.

 

“No fucking idea. And it’s not a book, nor is it only about Davo,” Dylan clarifies.

 

“It’s not?” Marns asks, and he looks even more perplexed.

 

“No. It’s about Davo and _Draisaitl_.” Dylan pronounces the last name of Davo’s teammate like it was an actual German curse.

 

Marns frowns at him and then he burst out laughing.

 

“Have you been Googling your BFF, Stromer? You know that the glorious Internet is like a black hole. It’ll suck you in and never let you go.”

 

“What? No. Absolutely not! What the fuck, Marns. Why would I been doing that?”

 

“Well, then,” Marns says with a smirk. Dylan is going to fucking kill him next time he sees him. “Why would you be in possession of a primer about Davo and Draisaitl?”

 

“Ryan sent me a link. He got it from one of his non-hockey friends. They wanted to be helpful since he’s going to Edmonton.”

 

Dylan is ecstatic that his brother’s going to play with Connor—viciously jealous, but ecstatic. So he’s happy Ryan has people watching out for him, and sending him tips about living in Edmonton and playing there too. He still doesn't get the point of the fucking primer.

 

“I don't get the point of the primer either, Stromer,” Mitch comments when Dylan makes his feelings known. “But then, it’s not like I’ve even seen it.”

 

“Right,” Dylan says, and immediately rectifies the situation by sending Marns the link Ryan had texted to him not even one hour ago.

 

Marns does something with his phone and, as soon as he clicks on the link, his eyebrows reach his hairline and his eyes go so wide Dylan thinks they might pop off their eye-sockets.

 

“What the hell is this?” Marns asks.

 

“It’s the primer,” Dylan answers primly.

 

“You shouldn't be looking at this stuff, Stromer, Jesus. We get enough lectures about social media use without going looking for it.”

 

“I didn't go looking for anything, Marns,” Dylan reminds. “I clicked on a link.”

 

“It’s a Tumblr link, Stromer. You really should know better,” Marns comments.

 

“You’re looking at it,” Dylan grumbles.

 

“Because it’s hilarious,” Marns comments.

 

“I can look and see if there is one about you and Matts,” Dylan suggests helpfully.

 

“There probably is. Even Bon Jovi thinks we’re adorable,” Marns says, as he continues to look at the origins of Dylan’s mental breakdown. ”Though,” he adds, “have you looked if there is one of you and Davo?”

 

“What? Are you insane? You just told me not to look for this stuff!” Stromer protests.

 

“Well, when in Rome …” Marns says.

 

“That makes no sense whatsoever.”

 

“Mmm,” Mitch says. “It’s kind of cute.”

 

“Not helpful, Marns,” Dylan grumbles.

 

“What do you want me to say, Stromer?” Marns inquires.

 

“Did you know about this?”

 

“The primer?” Mitch frowns. “Why would I?”

 

“About Davo and Draisaitl,” Dylan corrects him impatiently.

 

“There is nothing to know about Davo and Draisaitl, Stromer.”

 

“The primer begs to differ,” Dylan objects with a sniff.

 

“Right,” Marns smirks, “because the primer is the ultimate authority on all things Connor McDavid and Leon Draisaitl, and everything you read on the web is notoriously true. Do you also have a pet unicorn, Stromer?”

 

“There is enough truth in there to make it believable,” Dylan points out.

 

“Oh, look,” Marns smirks. “Apparently you and Davo are very soft. Cute photo, Stromer.”

 

Dylan knows exactly what Marns is referring to. The maker of the primer—writer, artist? Dylan is not well versed in Tumblr etiquette—used an old picture of him and Davo to remind the readers of when they were best friends in the Otters. Like they’re not best friends anymore.

 

“Fuck off, Marns.”

 

“Though I’m sorry, Stromer, but Draisaitl is objectively much hotter than you have ever hope to achieve,” Marns continues mercilessly. “He does look great with a beard, and I’m not a beard man myself.”

 

“That’s because you can’t grow one to save your life. They even did a segment about it during the playoffs,” Dylan chirps him.

 

“Because you can do so much better,” Marns says.

 

“If I wanted to be mocked, I would have called Ryan,” Dylan whines. “And I am totally going to tell Matthews what you said about Draisaitl.”

 

Marns rolls his eyes like that’s water off his back. Dylan knows better, but lets it go.

 

“I’m looking for some moral support here, Marns.”

 

Marns turns his attention towards Dylan for a moment.

 

“What exactly is the problem, Dyls?” he asks softly.

 

Dylan is quiet, because he doesn't fucking know. He’s being trying to figure it out since he read through the damn thing the first time. Right now, he’s halfway through reading number seven, has memorized the section about Davo’s 100th point, and he’s about ready to go to Germany to challenge Draisaitl to a duel for Connor’s hand or something like that.

 

“I mean,” Marns continues unaware of Dylan’s Victorian-sounding plans, “it’s just all about framing, right?”

 

“Framing,” Dylan repeats.

 

“Yeah, you know. The media people always tell us about framing the story. Being in control of the narrative?”

 

Dylan doesn't know, but he’s not on the Toronto Maple Leafs roster, so he doesn't get prolonged and most likely terrifying talks about how to deal with Toronto’s media frenzy.

 

“It’s not an article in the papers, Marns,” he objects.

 

“I know,” Marns rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying that whoever did this took a bunch of material that’s out there, framed it to make it look like things are the way you took them to mean, and posted it. It’s clever and inventive or whatever, but it’s not real.”

 

Dylan thinks Marns would have a point, if not for one little detail, which has nothing to do with the creator of the primer.

 

“Unless Pat Maroon moonlights as a Tumblr user, I think there are good chances it is real,” he observes with what he knows is a sour look on his face.

 

“Because of his Instagram post?” Marns asks disbelievingly. “Come on, Stromer. You know that shit isn’t true. We’ve done it, too.”

 

“Not like that,” Dylan grumbles.

 

“Give me a break,” Marns objects. “I remember posts from which people could have assumed we were fucking.”

 

“Fine,” Dylan concedes. “This is different, though. Come on, Davo’s wearing Draisaitl’s sweater in one of those pictures.”

 

“It is quite endearing, though I find the ‘drinking-from-his-bottle’ more damning, if you’re looking for clues,” Marns smirks unhelpful.

 

“Marns,” Dylan whines again.

 

“Stromer,” Marns echoes. “We’ve slept in the same bed more times I can remember and nothing ever happened. As far as I know,” he adds, “you and Davo did the same. We’re hockey players. Personal boundaries don't exist.”

 

“On the ice,” Dylan grumbles.

 

“Off the ice, too. Unless you’re Sidney Crosby. Or Connor McDavid being all awkward with his fans.”

 

“Oh god,” Dylan laughs. “That photo was so fucking awful. They should never have given him the Hart after it made the rounds.”

 

“Chirping material until the next ice age, dude,” Marns comments. “I’ll take it.”

 

They’re quiet for a bit after that.

 

Then Marns says, “Let me see if there is one of you and Davo, so you can get over this ridiculous thing.”

 

“Don’t,” Dylan says. Yells, kind of.

 

Mitch stops and stares at Dylan worriedly.

 

“Dude,” he begins, but Dylan stops him right there.

 

“I don't wanna know. And it doesn't matter anyway,” he adds quickly, because it’s true.

 

Even if there is a fucking primer about him and Davo that’s ten times better than this little masterpiece that fell into Dylan’s lap, it’s not going to make any difference. It's not like him and Davo are dating. Or ever were, for that matter.

 

“Dude,” Marns repeats with more emphasis. “I thought you were over it. Haven’t you start dating that girl Mikey introduced us back in March?”

 

“No,” Dylan answers, trying to pinpoint which girl Mitch is referring to. Quite frankly, there are a lot of them. “And there is nothing to be over.”

 

“Really?” Marns says. “Because this, right here, looks like jealousy to me.”

 

“I am not jealous,” Dylan objects vehemently. Maybe he should have controlled the tone there, at least a bit.

 

Marns waggles his eyebrows.

 

“Don’t do that,” Dylan tells him. “It’s not as attractive as you think it is.”

 

“Fuck you, I am a prince,” Marns retorts. “And you’re absolutely 157 percent jealous. Don't even try to tell me otherwise, Stromer. I’ve had a first row ticket to the McDavid-and-Strome show since 2014.”

 

“There is no show,” Dylan grumbles. He’d know if there was one. He’d be, like, the lead character.

 

“You guys are talking, right?” Marns asks, suddenly looking all concerned and shit.

 

“Of course we’re talking, why wouldn’t we?”

 

“I mean, you sound like you don't know what’s going on in Davo’s life. Are you sure everything is alright?” Marns comments.

 

“I got ten snaps from him just yesterday. Everything is fine,” Dylan insists, because it’s true. They might not be able to spend as much time together as they did when they both played for the Erie Otters, but they’re still the closest of friends. They talk, text or comment on each other’s posts almost every day.

 

“So Davo hasn't told you he’s been, like, secretly dating Draisaitl for the past year or something,” Marns observes rationally.

 

Dylan hates it when Marns goes all logical on him. Marns is not a logical person at all. He’s, like, the least logical people Dylan’s ever met, and Dylan’s met Jack Eichel.

 

“No, he hasn't,” Dylan admits. “Not that he would, though,” he adds.

 

“Why?” Marns asks.

 

“You know why,” Dylan says. “We don't talk about that.”

 

“Still?” Marns asks surprised. “I thought the moratorium on you guys’ sexual escapades had expired a long time ago.”

 

“It has,” Dylan admits. “We just never went back to talking about this shit.”

 

There had been a time, before their last year together on the Otters, when Dylan had told Connor everything there was to know about his sex life, and Connor had returned the favor. Then the draft had happened, and they’d both seen things they couldn't un-see—the least said, the soonest mended, they’d decided. From then onwards, they’ve stopped being each other’s confident about their sexual lives, however; luckily, their friendship hasn’t suffered from it. The end result, however, is that Dylan only hears about Davo’s hook-ups and significant others through the grapevine, which usually means Mitch.

 

“Ah,” Marns finally connects the dots. “I told you there is nothing going on, there. If there was, I’d probably know by now.”

 

“You didn't know about the primer,” Dylan huffs.

 

“That makes no sense, Stromer,” Marns objects.

 

“You make no sense,” Dylan chirps him, because Marns is unfortunately right, and Dylan doesn't know what else to say.

 

“I think I’m going to regret asking this,” Marns continues wrinkling his nose, “but why exactly do you care one way or another about Davo and Draisaitl?”

 

“Do you know his hockey name is Drai?” Dylan says a propos of nothing. “Ryan told me. Davo-and-Drai sounds nice, doesn't it?”

 

“Stromer,” Mitch says patiently. “Do I need to stage an intervention? Because I’ve frankly got nothing better to do at the moment, and I’m sure I can earn brownie points with the Coyotes by rescuing you from madness.”

 

“Why would you need to earn brownie points with the Coyotes?” Dylan asks. “No, don't answer that,” he hastens to add. “I don't want to hear anymore about your love story with your Arizona boy.”

 

“There is no love story, Stromer,” Mitch says haughtily. “Don’t you know I’m saving myself for marriage?”

 

Dylan bursts out laughing, which he imagines was Marns’ plan all along. Marns is a good friend; that’s why Dylan called him and not Brinksy. Brinksy would have snickered before hanging up and calling Davo to tell him everything. He’s such a teacher’s pet.

 

“So?” Marns says, still stubbornly waiting for his answer.

 

“I don't know, Marns,” Dylan finally admits. “I really don't know where this is coming from. That’s why I called you.”

 

Marns hums thoughtfully. “I mean, it just seems to me that you’re blowing things out of proportions here. I’m not saying Davo is not in a relationship, because I honestly don't know—though I can ask around. But if there were something there with Draisaitl, trust me, I would have heard.”

 

Marns has always been one of the most approachable players while they were still in the O, and it hasn't changed in the last year. People confide in him, because he’s the least judgmental people Dylan has ever met. That means Mitch hears plenty of gossip, although he refuses to share any of it, the dick.

 

In addition, it’s an open secret that Mitch is bi and relatively well adjusted about it, considering he’s a twenty-year-old Canadian hockey player. Dylan knows that other players have asked him for advice about non-traditional sexualities, which Mitch had found baffling—“Like I’m some kind of guru or something, Stromer, what the fucking fuck?” he had told Dylan the last time someone asked him about something or other.

 

“I don't think it’s the relationship thing that’s bothering me, Marns,” Dylan explains tentatively. “Davo’s had relationship before.”

 

“Okay,” Marns says encouragingly.

 

“I think it’s the relationship-with-teammate thing that I’m having a hard time dealing with.”

 

“Even if it’s not true?” Marns asks.

 

Dylan thinks about that for a second—Marns’s probably right that Davo is not dating Draisaitl or fucking him or any variations thereof.

 

“Yeah,” he acknowledges, albeit reluctantly. Admitting it means having to deal with plenty of issues Dylan has thus far pretended didn’t exist.

 

“Let’s work with that, then,” Marns says.

 

“It’s just,” Dylan says. “It could have been us, you know? Me and Davo.”

 

“When you were in Erie?”

 

“Yeah,” Dylan exhales. “We came close a couple of times, especially after Connor broke his hand. But, it just seemed like it would have ruined everything.”

 

“Did you actually talk about it?” Marns asks sounding surprised.

 

“Of course not,” Dylan huffs, because who talks about feelings, anyway? “Still, it could have been us, and now it’s too late.”

 

“It’s not too late if you want to be with him,” Marns says gently, but Dylan shakes his head.

 

“I don't know what I want, Mitchy. If I did, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. Plus, being together now that we are on two different teams in two different countries would be impossible, not even counting the fact that I might get stuck in the AHL for the rest of my career.”

 

Marns scoffs. ”Don’t be ridiculous, Stromer. You had the best year of your career. There is no way you’re not making the team this season.”

 

“I was a twenty-year-old 6.4 foot player going against sixteen year olds, Marns.”

 

“That’s an oversimplification and you know it!” Marns objects vehemently. Marns is the best.

 

“I didn't win the cup,” Dylan adds.

 

“Hockey is a team sport. And this has nothing to do with being able to be with Davo, Stromer. It’s not like he cares about that.”

 

“You’re right,” Dylan concedes. “Still, I just feel like we missed our opportunity.”

 

“And you figured it out because of the primer?” Marns asks skeptically.

 

“You can see they’re happy together,” Dylan says. “Even if they’re not together. It does something to you, playing together at that level. You _know_ that, Marns.”

 

“Of course I do,” Marns replies. “But I can assure you I’ve never been inclined to jump JVR or Bozie.”

 

Dylan decides to show some restrain and ignores the obvious chirp on the tip of his tongue about Marns jumping some other teammate of his.

 

“Stromer,” Marns says. “Don't be a dick about this. Talk to him.”

 

“I don't know, Marns.”

 

“You keep saying that, but the fact that we are here talking about this tells me you actually do know. Clearly whatever you felt for him when you guys were in the O hasn't gone away as you believed. Come on, Stromer,” Mitch pushes, “it’s Davo. If you wait for him to do something about it, you’re going to wait forever.”

 

“He might not want the same thing,” Dylan mumbles.

 

“In which case, he’s not going to be a dick about it, you’ll have done something and you can move on with the rest of your life,” Marns concludes sagely.

 

Dylan stares at Marns unhappily. “Fine, but if this doesn't end well, you’re going to have to be the one who picks up the pieces.”

 

*******

 

It takes Dylan until mid August to finally manage to see Davo. By that time, he’s read the primer more times than he cares do admit, and he’s ready to text the author to suggest some additions. After all, everyone saw Davo and Draisaitl’s exchange about playing NHL 18, and that should be added to the primer for completeness’ sake. Dylan didn't know he had a masochist streak until this summer. Marns talked him out of the idea pretty quickly, however, because “Fourth Wall, dude, what the fuck.” Also, he threatened to renege on his promise not to look for a Dylan-and-Davo primer and, for Dylan, ignorance is bliss right now.

 

Dylan has been back from Arizona for a bit—camp went well and, maybe, this coming season, he’ll manage to stick around. He’s been training with Ryan and Matty, and texting with Crouser and the McLeods by the time he eventually calls Davo once he, too, is back in the GTA. Everything is fine between them, like always, so it doesn't take long to arrange to get together the day before the last Strome-McLeod street hockey tournament of the summer.

 

They meet at Dylan’s parents’, since it’s where the tourney will happen. Davo is staying overnight, and Marns is arriving early tomorrow. He’s bringing Zach Hyman and Brownie, which is really cool, in Dylan’s opinion. Not as cool, however, as if Marns had decided to bring Matts. Apparently, however, Auston Matthews is somewhere on the American west coast hanging out with other friends of his. Plus, Dylan suspects, Marns doesn't want Dylan to meet Matts off ice as long as he can avoid it.

 

Him and Davo saw each other in Windsor for the Memorial Cup and then a few days after the Otters had lost in the final, so it’s been a while but not, like, a _while._ Still, Dylan has missed Davo quite a bit; but then, he always does.

 

“It’s so hot,” Davo complains as they make their way to Dylan’s room.

 

Matty and some of his friends have taken over the basement, and none of them is particularly impressed with Connor’s semi-divine hockey status or with the fact that Dylan is bigger than each and every one of them. They’ve been kicked out of the basement and relegated to the top floor of the house.

 

“I know,” Dylan says. “Hopefully it’ll cool down by tomorrow, otherwise it’s gonna suck.”

 

“How have you been, Stromer?” Davo asks him once they’re in Dylan’s room and sprawled on Dylan’s bed.

 

“You mean since the last time I spoke to you, which was yesterday?” Dylan smirks, because there is no universe in which he’s not going to make fun of Davo for his social ineptitude.

 

Davo rolls his eyes good-naturedly and they spend the next half hour catching up.

 

“It’ really good to have Ryan in Edmonton, Stromer,” Davo says at some point. “Don't get me wrong,” he hastens to add. “It sucked to lose Ebs, especially after losing Hallsy last year.”

 

“He’s really excited too,” Dylan smiles. “And not one day goes by that he doesn't remind me of that.”

 

“Right,” Davo says, but he seems somber all of a sudden.

 

“Davo?” Dylan prods him gently.

 

“It’s just,” Davo says scrubbing his face with his hand. “It just sucks, Dyls.”

 

“I assume you are not referring to my brother,” Dylan observes, considering what Connor just said like two seconds before.

 

“All the trades,” Davo explains. “I get it that it is part of the game, but it makes me feel shitty.”

 

Dylan doesn't read his own press if he can avoid it, and he certainly doesn't read Connor’s, because if he wants to know about his best friend he can just ask him directly. Yet, he knows what Davo is referring to—one would have to live under a rock to miss the fact that Taylor Hall’s trade last year, and Jordan Eberle’s more recently, were necessary moves to accommodate Connor’s and Draisaitl’s contracts. God knows, Mitch had bitched to Dylan about it for a week, because it’s where the Leafs are going to be at this time next year, and he’s worrying about it already.

 

“It’s not your fault,” Dylan says, an arm around Davo’s shoulders.

 

“Except it kind of is,” Davo mumbles in Dylan’s shirt.

 

“It’s really, really not,” Dylan insists. “It’s not your fault you are so good the Oilers want to keep you as long as possible. It’s not your fault that you are better than the rest of your teammates. And it’s certainly not your fault that players are just pawns that management uses in a complicated game of chess.”

 

Davo leans into Dylan’s embrace. “I just never thought it’d be so hard, you know? Like, I knew I’d made friends that I’d lose without any warning. But it seems like we’ve been hemorrhaging players since I got to Edmonton. And I don't know how to deal with it.”

 

“Have you talked to your agent?” Dylan asks, because this might be a bit above his pay grade.

 

“A bit,” Davo says. “Mostly I talked to Drai.”

 

Dylan tenses for a moment, but it makes sense. Draisaitl is in the middle of contract negotiations. He’s been with the Oilers as long as Davo has, so chances are he’s equally troubled by the whole endeavor.

 

“Did he have anything helpful to say?”

 

Connor shakes his head. “I mean, he feels the same? He resents it more than I do, probably, which is saying something. I was sad when Ebs was traded. Drai got mad and went on about loyalty and what not.”

 

“It’s hockey,” Dylan observes. “I get what he says about loyalty, but we can’t really expect it from management.”

 

It’s a depressing thought, and Dylan’s experience with NHL management is admittedly limited. Nevertheless, hockey _is_ a team sport. The success of the team will always be put above the feelings of its individual players.

 

“That’s what I told him,” Davo agrees. “But he got even madder because ultimately all these changes might be for nothing. No one can ensure me and Drai are going to play together forever, you know. Even Gretzky got traded.”

 

“And Edmonton never recovered,” Dylan observes. “I would hope management learned their lesson.”

 

“It’s not the same management,” Davo says.

 

Dylan rolls his eyes. Sometimes he thinks hockey takes up so much of Davo’s brain there is no space left for anything else—common sense and sarcasm especially.

 

“Anyway,” Dylan says, trying to be cheerful. “look at other teams. Crosby and Malkin have been playing together for more than a decade. And Ovechkin and Backstrom are getting there.”

 

“There was talk of trading Ovechkin after the Capitals were kicked out off the playoffs back in May,” Davo grumbles.

 

“Davo,” Dylan says. “Buddy. What is wrong, exactly? Because this isn’t really like you. You have been playing this game for too long to let this stupid shit mess with your head. Is it because of Draisaitl?”

 

“Leon?” Davo says. “No, of course not. I mean, I feel bad it’s been difficult for him and everything.”

 

“Then what’s going on?” Dylan asks.

 

“It’s just,” Davo begins, but then he stops himself, his cheeks pink.

 

“Davo …”

 

“I just miss you, you know? Like, I knew I missed you before. But since they announced that Ryan was coming to play for the Oilers, I’ve been missing you even more.”

 

Dylan frowns, not sure if he should feel flattered or worried about this.

 

“Davo,” he says tentatively, “I miss you too. But I’m right here.”

 

“I know,” Davo says, trying to wave off Dylan’s concern. “But I never thought for one second I would get to play with your brother. It got me thinking, you know?”

 

“What about?” Dylan asks, because he’s honestly puzzled.

 

“About getting to play with you again,” Davo says.

 

“Connor,” Dylan says. That’s the road to madness. Dylan knows, because he travelled on it for a few months back in 2015, even after it became very clear that both he and Davo would be drafted among the top ten prospects. By that time, it became clear it would always be almost impossible for them to play on the same NHL team.

 

“It’s just that I never thought I'd play with Ryan,” Davo repeats. “And then we got him for Ebs. Like, the impossible happened. So, maybe, the two of us could play together too.”

 

“Okay,” Dylan says, although he finds it unlikely. As much as him and Davo have plenty of chemistry and routinely killed it on the Otters’ power play, they’re both centers, and the Oilers have plenty of those. And if one of them is getting traded, it’s sure as hell not going to be Connor.

 

“I realized the that I would do pretty much anything to play with you again, Dyls,” Davo says.

 

Dylan’s heart melts at hearing Davo saying something like that.

 

“I would too, Davo,” he admits, because it’s true. “But I don't understand why that’s such a problem.”

 

“Anything, Dylan,” Davo repeats. “Anything to have you on my team, in my city, at my side.” Davo raises his blue eyes and they’re blazing with unrestrained emotions.

 

“I would accept any teammate’s trade, any line decision by coach, any salary adjustment to have you back with me. It scared me, Dyls,” Davo whispers the last part, but Dylan hears him just fine.

 

“Jesus, Connor,” he says, because he wasn't expecting this.

 

“I just miss you so much, Dylan,” Davo repeats.

 

Dylan’s eyes fill with tears, and he’s not a crier, despite Marns’ numerous statements to the contrary, but the occasion calls for them. Plus, Davo is crying too.

 

“I miss you too, Davo,” Dylan says it back, since it begs repeating.

 

By now they are snuggled together so closely there isn’t room for anything between them. It’s not an unusual position for them, but it feels different from every other time they’ve been in this situation.

 

“I would do anything to be with you again,” Dylan adds. “And I mean it, it’s not a bad thing.”

 

“Tell that to Leon,” Davo says ruefully.

 

“Christ, Davo,” Dylan pulls back to look Connor in the eye. “You didn't!”

 

“Of course not,” Davo huffs, trying to dry his tears with the hem of his t-shirt. “But it made me feel like shit to think that. He’s my best friend on the team. You are …”

 

“I am what, Davo?” Dylan prods.

 

Davo looks at him all serious. “You’re my everything.”

 

Dylan feels like he’s been sucker-punched and his mind goes blank for a second before he pulls Davo in a bone-crushing hug.

 

“You’re my everything too, Davo.”

 

Davo exhales sharply and deflates in Dylan’s embrace. Dylan leans his head into Davo’s, which is lying across Dylan’s chest, and lets himself breathe.

 

They stay like that for a long time—their hearts beating at the same time, their breaths synchronized—until Davo raises his head to look Dylan straight in the eye.

 

“We’ve got the worst timing, Dyls,” he says unhappily.

 

Dylan kisses him on the forehead and smiles. “It’s going to be fine, Davo.”

 

Davo looks at him intently, a thoughtful expression on his face.

 

“Promise?”

 

“I promise I’ll do everything I can to ensure that,” Dylan says honestly. It’s going to be hard, doing this—since they apparently are doing this.

 

“It would have been easier if you’d sucked a bit more,” Davo says lying back on top of Dylan.

 

“Fuck you very much, Davo,” Dylan bursts out laughing. “The same goes for you. It would have been even better if the Oilers hadn’t won the fucking lottery.”

 

“Point,” Davo concedes. “Though I’m not sure I have the stomach to play for an American team,” he adds referring to the Sabres and the Coyotes, who had had the highest chances to win the lottery back in 2015.

 

“Plus, I’m not so sure Buffalo-Arizona would have been better,” Dylan comments.

 

“Buffalo-Toronto was totally doable,” Davo says.

 

“So is Edmonton-Arizona, Davo,” Dylan says firmly.

 

“Yeah,” Davo agrees smiling up at Dylan. Dylan stops pretending to care about alternate realities and leans in to kiss him. It’s about time they get on with that.

 

*******

 

“It looks like you guys figured it out,” Marns tells Dylan the following day.

 

They are sitting on the sidewalk outside of the McLeod’s house, covered in sweat and getting some rest before resuming the tournament. Dylan has been riding so high on endorphins he doesn't even know who’s winning.

 

Davo is on the other side of the street talking to Ryan and Brownie, but not one minute goes by before he looks for Dylan in the crowd.

 

“We did,” Dylan confirms with a huge grin.

 

“Gross, Stromer,” Marns complains wrinkling his nose. “I don't really want the deets.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dylan says. “You want to know everything.”

 

“I really, really don't,” Marns hastens to assure him. Yet, he’s one of Dylan’s best friends, so chances are Dylan’s going to give me regular reports about the state of his relationship with Davo.

 

“What did he say about the primer, by the way?” Marns asks.

 

“Oh,” Dylan says. “I forgot about that.”

 

“You forgot about it? You _forgot_ about it? Stromer, you agonized over that thing for, like, weeks. How did you forget about it?”

 

“We had better things to do?” It comes out as a question but it really isn’t. Him and Davo have spent every second since yesterday morning together. They've made out a lot, they’ve done other things a lot and they’ve also talked a lot—there is a lot to talk about, after all. But the primer really didn't cross Dylan’s mind.

 

“McDavid,” Marns yells, because he doesn't have an inside voice. “Ask the Stromes about the primer.”

 

“Mitch!” Dylan hisses, but Ryan bursts out laughing, and pulls his phone out of his pocket—why the hell does he have his phone on him anyway? They’re playing street hockey, for fuck’s sake.

 

Brownie wisely scampers away once Dylan and Marns get where Ryan and Davo are standing. By then, Ryan has already filled Davo in on the concept and is showing Davo the damn thing. Marns jumps in here and there to offer his own unique commentary about some of the entries—he seems particularly enamored with one of Draisaitl’s shot, to the point that Davo offers to give him his phone number.

 

Dylan, for his part, keeps his mouth shut, because he’d like to get laid in the near future, thank you very much. He simply observes Davo, who looks a mixture of horrified, embarrassed and fascinated by the whole thing.

 

“Did you know about this?” he asks Dylan once Marns and Ryan are done with their explanations.

 

“Ryan thought I should,” Dylan admits with a rueful smile.

 

“It created an existential crisis,” Marns adds helpfully. This time, however, he’s not 30 miles away, so Dylan manages to swat him on the head.

 

“Ouch, Stromer,” Marns complains. “Not cool.”

 

“Your thick skull can take it,” Dylan sniffs annoyed.

 

Davo is looking at him with an amused smile on his face.

 

“An existential crisis, eh?” he says. “Do I need to thank Ryan, then?”

 

Ryan, who hasn't been informed of Dylan and Davo’s relationship status change, looks at the two of them, looks at Marns, and then says, “I don't wanna know.”

 

“Connor is your captain,” Dylan says with a smirk. “You’re, like, contractually obligated to listen to him.”

 

“Absolutely not,” Ryan says shaking his head vehemently. “I don't want to hear a thing about this. Not one thing. I mean,” he adds quickly. “I’m happy and shit for you guys, but keep me out of it, alright.”

 

Dylan waggles his eyebrows, and Davo laughs. “I make no promises, Ryan. After all, he’s your brother.”

 

“And a whole lot of good that does me,” Ryan whines before walking away.

 

Davo leans into Dylan still laughing.

 

“You’re such a little shit, Davo,” Dylan says, because the good Canadian boy is an act, although Dylan’s not going to spoil it for the rest of the world.

 

“Yep,” Davo confirms unrepentant. “So,” he adds. “Is there one of those things about us, too?”

 

Dylan can see the puzzlement in Davo’s face when Marns collapses on the pavement in a fit of giggles.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for carissima (lovedyouless on Tumblr), who let me play with her toys. Thank you!


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